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October 23, 2017

Honeycomb's Big, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.

"When I was about 17 years old, I always had itchy, flaky scalp. It would itch and irritate me so badly that my mother thought I had lice from all the scratching I did, but no, it was just my nasty scalp. Sometimes while I was in a particularly productive bout of scratching I would accidentally hook a fingernail under a large flake and pull off what looked like a little cake of crusted dandruff, about the width of a thimble, in my hand.

Anyway, during one such intense scratching episode I got my fingernails involved, but this time instead of pulling the flake straight off, I razored a straight line about 2 inches long, straight up the back of my head. Immediately I could feel the tip of my fingers covered with some nasty goo. I had delved much deeper than usual in this case than previously. I tried to push the edges of the nearest dandruff-infested skin clumps back together like a seam, but was met with a dagger-like shaft of horrible pain for my efforts. I decided to ignore it, and go on with my life. BIG MISTAKE.

I could feel that foul pus oozing out of the back of my head all night long, infecting my hair and trickling down the back of my neck. I touched some of the trickle that was on the back of my neck, and looked at my fingers--the fluid was a sickly yellow and smelled like death. Over the course of the next 2 days, I always wore a hat, pulled down practically to my ears, to disguise from my alarmist parents the sight of my crusted hair and the constant seeping flow.

Finally, though, about 3 days after I'd cut myself, I began to worry because the wound hadn't finished leaking pus. Tentatively, I pushed two fingers at the back of my skull and was rewarded with pain so intense I collapsed to the floor. My mother found me and pulled my hat off, and screamed because of the coating of translucent gunky pus-clumps that clung to my hair in various states of congealment.

They took me to the doctor, who shaved off all my hair to discover that the wound had become badly infected. They managed to save my life, but it turned out that the malignant pus had seeped into a small portion of the bone at the rear of my skull. That particular portion had also become infected and the doctor had to actually REMOVE a section of my skull a little larger than a quarter, replacing it with a small steel plate. He later told my father that the part of my bone they'd removed looked like a saggy, rotting, flaking honeycomb.

Anyway, for the entire rest of my life I have kept my head utterly shaved, and even though I have no hair I use a special shampoo for my scalp--I probably don't need to do either anymore, and many people stare at me (maybe they think I'm a Nazi skinhead) but I don't care. To this day I will often absently run my hands over the back of my bald head, luxuriating in the quiet joy of having a clean, dry, healthy scalp." -- Teratoma

Hey Ernie, I think I've written to you about twice since you opened up shop. Thought I'd throw some fodder your way. First off, here's some "Russian Pinups" .. A little fun, a little creepy. Second, I was in Hampden (a part of Baltimore) this past Wednesday, and I saw this guy, stoned out of his gourd. How do I know he's whacked? Because there ain't no way in hell a sober peson can lean like that without busting his ass.. Last (and I hesitate to share, but WTF, right?) - at the age of 49, I'm doing my first cosplay. I don't know if I'm doing it right, but, well... Browncoats FTW (if 10 years or so too late)... Yes, I (think) I'm prepared for the ribbing I'm about to get. Keep up the good work, -Tom

Actually dude, that's a pretty good Captain Mal. Color me impressed.

Arch bridge is one of the most popular types of bridges, which came into use over 3000 years ago and remained in height of popularity until industrial revolution and invention of advanced materials enabled architect to create other modern bridge designs. However, even today arc bridges remain in use, and with the help of modern materials, their arches can be build on much larger scales. The basic principle of arch bridge is its curved design, which does not push load forces straight down, but instead they are conveyed along the curve of the arch to the supports on each end. These supports -- called abutments -- carry the load of entire bridge and are responsible for holding the arch in a very stable position. Can you tell me the name of the historic old bridge this abutment is supporting?

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October 21, 2017

Insert Your Favorite Weekend Joke Here.

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October 20, 2017

I Fucking Hate Cheap Motherfuckers. Also Being A Social Adult Eats Cock

So this past Saturday night was the last night at our local brewhouse, which was closing down. Now I'm a trivia junkie and this weekly trivia has been a staple for Team Ernie for the last two years or so, so I'm really going to miss it. But for the last night there were about seven or eight of us sitting around a table before trivia started, and The Boss Lady and I decided to order a pizza. And for delivery, of course, because how fucking lazy am I? The pizza parlor is literally across the street, so I actually tip some guy $5 on a $20 pizza just to walk a fucking pizza across the street because I'm too fucking lazy to be bothered to go get my own greasebomb. But I digress. Pizza shows up and I eat three slices and The Boss Lady eats two, leaving three slices of pepperoni extra cheese left.

Now one of the guys who has migrated to our trivia team -- henceforth known as This Fucking Guy -- is a spitting fucking image of Travis Dave, the villain with women's hair from Under Siege 2. So fucking much that every fucking week I pull a photo of (actor) Eric Bogosian up on my phone, hold it up with This Fucking Guy in the background lean over to The Boss Lady and mutter, "this is where the shit really starts to fly, a fertilizer plant in Guangzhou," under my breath before laughing so hard I snort beer out of my nose. The Boss Lady usually hits me and calls me an asshole. Now I really don't know This Fucking Guy very much, he's a friend of a friend who just kind of sits in with our team if we have an open seat. So for the most part, he and I don't really interact except to think out loud if one of us is close to the answer. That is, until this week.

With three slices left in the pizza box, I ask the other people sitting at the table if anyone would like a slice. Everyone says no except for This Fucking Guy, so I pull out one of the paper plates that came with the pizza and hand it to him, turning the box so he can tug a slice onto his plate. Cool, right? And over the course of the next hour or so trivia runs its course -- we fucking win of course, because I am a fucking Trivia God -- and losers from other teams start to pay their tabs and head out. Our team decided to stay for awhile since this was both trivia and the brewery's last night. People are standing, people are sitting, conversing with each other, with stragglers from other teams, with the owners and whatnot. I happen to look down and see the two remaining pieces of pizza.

Now I can't speak for everyone, but personally I fucking love pizza. I mean I love all food, I just happen to love pizza more than others. So I nudge The Boss Lady and ask her if she would like one of the remaining pieces of pizza. She give the cold congealed greasy mess a look and shakes her head no. "Fuck that noise," I think, "I'm having one of those motherfuckers." And here's where I make a critical error born in benevolence. I make the mistake of turning the box to the remaining part of our team -- of which This Fucking Guy is a member -- and ask if anyone would like a remaining slice. Well before I could say fuckall, This Fucking Guy says, "Yeah I haven't eaten all day so I'll take them." And before my alcohol addled brain can process what he said -- "them?" -- this motherfucker reaches across the table and grabs not one but both of my slices of fucking pizza.

Now in the interest of full disclosure, I really didn't need said slice of pizza. In fact, I really should trade slices of pizza in for salad. But that's not the point. The point was, it's my fucking pizza. So The Boss Lady must have watched my eyes follow those two slices of cheesy gold from the pizza box over to This Fucking Guy's grease stained paper plate, like a dog watching you eat the last fucking Oreo. Simultaneously two things happened: I inhaled to say something very impolite and The Boss Lady pinched the back of my arm. I can't know if this is an evolutionary thing, but I can tell you the latter action cancelled out the former. My confused gaze shifted between her, the empty box which now only held a few scraps of congealed cheese, so those two delicious slices of pizza, to This Fucking Guy, and finally down to my empty plate.

But despite no verbal communication, The Boss Lady made it abundantly clear that I didn't need another slice of pizza and that I should let this slight go unanswered. For the record, both of these things are against my nature, but a gentleman has to make some concessions and heed the will of his Boss Lady from time to time. Fine.

Now the kid who runs trivia -- I can call young adults 'kid' now that now that I have a hairline in full muthafucking retreat -- just had his first kid a few months ago, so I'm sure the loss of a hundred bucks or so a week in Trivia pay will be felt. So with the smell of pepperoni still wafting its way up my nostrils, I lean over to The Boss Lady and the girl she's talking to and ask, "Hey should we take up a collection for Trivia Dude to say thanks for all the trivia he's done?" The two ladies look at each other, then back at me, and then nod their heads in agreement. So The Boss Lady pulls a $20 out of her purse to be thrown in for Team Ernie, the other lass she was talking to pulls out a $20, the guy across from me pulls out a $10, and I lean over to my left and pitch the idea to the other side of the table, which included This Fucking Guy.

A couple of people nod their head and after reaching for their wallets, and a couple more $10s, a $5, and a $20 head my way. I reach over to start collecting them and then out of the corner of my right eye I see This Fucking Guy pitch a bill on the table. So I'm unfolding everyone bills and facing them in the right direction -- McDonald's habits die hard -- when I get my first glance that what he three down. A single fucking $1 bill. Now to put this in perspective, Trivia Dude has been running trivia there every Saturday for the better part of two years. And again, yes he's compensated for his time, but this is a gesture from one of the longest running teams to just say thanks and we appreciate the time he puts into getting ready for trivia each week.

So I'm holding these bills in my hand, looking at the fucking one dollar bill on the table, and I look up at This Fucking Guy with a 'what the fuck' look on my face. AND HE'S EATING MY FUCKING PIZZA. Literally he is staring me in the face, chewing my fucking pizza, with a single crumpled dolar bill between us. I look down at the dollar bill and then back up at him. I crumple my brow and nod down at the dollar in clear 'what the fuck' fashion. He shrugs his shoulders and from behind a mouthful of MY FUCKING PIZZA garbles out, "DAS AWW EH HAWD." At this point a dozen fucking questions are running through my head, mainly how one could go out to a fucking bar and not being any more cash than a single fucking one dollar bill. Sure I get it, credit cards and whatnot, but c'mon man. A fucking dollar? REALLLLLY?

Now at this point, I'm actually getting a little pissed the fuck off. I mean this goes beyond a greedy pizza grab, this is the express train to CheapMotherfuckersVille. And kids, I hate CheapMotherfuckersVille. This is rude. This is insulting. So I square myself up in my chair so that I'm facing him, and slide my beer glass to one side so that I can lean in across the table and really make sure he hears what the fucking I'm saying because I'm about to tear this cocksucker a new asshole or six. And then I feel The Pinch again. Not a quick catch-and-release like before, but a grab-and-hold this time. And medium grip, not full bore. "No," The Boss Lady says. I shoot her an incredulous look, "But he ju-" "NO." she cuts me off. "Don't make a scene."

Now I know at this stage I know I'm not going to win. Sure, I can push forward with my attack, berate This Fucking Guy for all I'm worth -- justifiably so -- but I'm wise enough know the long term loss won't be worth the short term gain. But at the same time, I'm also wise enough to learn new tricks, and what was the lesson The Boss lady was teaching me? Yes, that's right. Non-verbal communication. And so I didn't say anything after This Fucking Guy reached over and scarfed almost two thirds of my fucking pizza without so much as offering a penny to pay for his dinner. Nor did I say anything when this cheap motherfucker offered a paltry fucking dollar bill to the guy who has been running trivia since it fucking started.

But I did look him straight in the eye, first leaning over to pick up his dollar bill to the growing pile, and again a second time to slowly and deliberately reach across the table and jam my fucking thumb right into what was left of his slice of pizza. I pulled it back and used the now moistened pad to count through the dollar bills. And as I suspected, the pussy didn't have the balls to finish it.

Hi Ernie, Got a fun 360 degree where's waldo game. Best Regards, David

Isn't this a negligent discharge of a firearm, resulting in negligent homiside, if your downrange isn't clear at your illeagle gun range, resulting in someone being shot and killed? Not in Florida I guess. I'm not preaching gun control, but asking why the shooters are not being charged. Jerimy

Dude, your message came through at 7:30am'ish my time, so I'm going to assume you're on the west coast and still drunk. But if you are so fucked up you can't even spell your own name right, I'm honestly and truly impressed. Rule #4 comes into play here; be sure of your target and what's beyond it. Now personally, do I think these two guys deserve charges? I do. Something criminal negligencey, at least. But for something manslaughtery or more, as is stated in the article, "the two men had been taking turns firing the gun and could not see Ramdass, who was behind a vegetation-covered berm, detectives don't know which one of them fired the fatal shot." INALB without knowing for sure the answer to that question, there's no way to charge the culpible person and I would imagine intent would be necessary for the felony murder rule to come into play. All in all, shit deal.

Cosplay is an imperfect art, but the goal is to use ingenuity and creativity to resemble a fictional character as closely as possible. Cosplayers often fall short of exact mimicry, but the fun is in the attempt. Sometimes though, there are eerie similarities, such as the case with these Harley Quinn cosplay ladies.

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October 18, 2017

Wow, I Dug This bad Boy Up From A Nineteen Year Old Archived ALT.TASTELESS post.

"I lived in China for a couple extended periods of time, and the subject of executions, being near and dear to my cold, right-wing heart, was of particular interest to me because the local execution grounds were right next to the facility I was building.

Every time they had a truckload of prisoners slated for the golden headache pill, the festivities began. A large contingent of green-clad motorcycle outriders, jeeps with more uniformed monkeys, then a truckload of soldiers in the bed, a truck with the lucky contestants, another truck of soldiers, more jeeps and then more cycles, makes a complete pass through town. Every damn one of them with sirens a-screamin' and lights a-flashin'. The procession travels at about 5 mph through town, stopping at every major intersection for 3-5 minutes so that the local citizenry can gawk at their unfortunate brethren who got caught, then continues on to the next intersection.

I gotta add here that the prisoners were all standing up in the bed of the trucks, hands tied behind their backs (couldn't tell if it was cheap Chinese rope or the nicer plastic cuffs the yoo-ess oinkers use, but certainly not handcuffs), facing outward, a scarf tied over their foreheads (never found out the significance of the scarf), and a chalkboard sign hung around their necks with the tale of their exploits written on it. Being gwaylo (that's Chinese for honkey muthafuckah), I couldn't read the chicken-scratchings on the boards, but my assistant would fill me in on what she read after the trucks left.

Our facility was at the last intersection of the usual procession route, so we had a rather unique experience in that we knew, with dead (heh, heh) certainty, every single person we were looking at in the bed of that truck was going to die in a very few minutes. They knew it too. Most `em would have a glassy stare, like they were lookin' right through ya as they shat their jammies, but others had the trapped rat look, eyes darting from side to side, looking, searching, hoping for something, anything, to happen that would/could/might stave off the inevitable. Never happened.

The parade would lurch off after a few minutes and make the turn into the last unpaved road before the river into a copse of woods on the other side of our building site. From the roof of our facility, we could see partially over some of the trees and made out that there was a clearing, probably about 1/2 an acre of ground, and the stack of the crematory just peeking out over the branches. If we timed it correctly, about 25-30 minutes after seeing the trucks stopped out front, we could be on the roof, hiding behind the air-handlers and hear the shots, faint as they were (I think they actually use a .22 for the deed, not the cheesy .32's they wore on their uniforms).

Now, being that we came from a country where executions aren't carried out in such a public fashion, and certainly not with the frequency that we witnessed in China, we rode our interpreters and assistants pretty hard to glean all the gory details. It turns out that the criminal justice system is pretty swift over there (gee, no shit). Trials are held very quickly, and sentencing happens right then and there at the end of the trial if found guilty (about 75% are found guilty, so we were told). There is a review period of several days immediately after the guilty verdict where any appeals may be lodged, but typically the review is a rubber-stamp thing. The prisoners are then housed until a suitable number (a truckload?) can be assembled for the trip out to the edge of town. Makes no difference which gender you happen to be - if found guilty of a capitol crime (prostitution counts here, folks, I shit you not), it's off to the trees with ya. And, NO, the family does NOT pay for the bullet or the cost of the trial. All costs are born by Grandpa (the Chinese equivalent of our Uncle Sam) in the Land of the Iron Ricebowl.

After the prisoners are hauled off the trucks and made to kneel, the officer in charge walks behind them and pops them in the back of the head as he goes down the row. One of the interpreters told us that he understood that each lucky contestant got two slugs apiece, but we couldn't get anybody to confirm this. The families of the condemned are allowed to come and pick up the bodies of papa, sister or brother after the deed, but because of the loss of face associated with having brother Chan or sister Wo executed for slipping a little cash from the till or giving blowjobs to gwaylos, usually opt not to. If a body is not picked up by dusk, they fire up the ovens and do the crispy critter thing with the ashes used for fertilizer.

There ya have it folks. Ain't cultural diversity grand?" --Loflyer

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October 16, 2017

Mondays Eat Moose Cock, AMIRITE?

So my favorite local craft brewery took a shit this past weekend, so that kind of sucks.

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The Lagunitas Brewing Company is a brewery founded in 1993 in Lagunitas, California, and is known for iconoclastic interpretations of traditional beer styles, and irreverent descriptive text and stories on its packaging. The brewery has long-standing associations with cannabis, which have at times caused legal problems. Some beers have had names associated with the drug, in one case resulting in a name being banned, using the number 420 in internal materials and external advertising, and having a weekly party with cannabis and beer. The use of 420 for marketing and the smoking at parties has stopped for legal reasons.

A towel animal is a depiction of an animal created by folding small towels. Carnival, Norwegian Cruise Lines, Disney Cruise Line, Royal Caribbean, Disney Hotels and Holland America Line cruises will often place towel animals on a patron's bed as part of their nightly turndown service. Towel animals are also appearing in higher-end hotels and resorts such as Grupo Vidanta's Grand Luxxe Residence Clubs in Nuevo Vallarta and Riviera Maya. It is conceptually similar to origami, but uses towels rather than paper. Some common towel animals are elephants, snakes, rabbits and swans. Some creations require the use of multiple towels and at times, hand towels or washcloths.

Hi Ernie, I finally found a rapper I can get into, if F bombs are NSFW then this is NSFW. Regards, Eric

ernie, so how about a de-hurricane story? since the immediate, but not the long term (Nate) threat is over do you use the gas in your cars? drain the water bladder?. unwrap the electronics? use the reserve dog food? drain the gas and put away the gens.? stow the shutters? get back to "normal"? or keep all that stuff ready to go? when do you look around and see no hurricane preparedness, January? or is the threat always hovering? hurrcon 1 vs. full tilt hurrcon 5? Tommy

So what is de-hurricaning like. Hmmm. Well, for starters even though it's the same amount of work, it always seems to go a little easier since there's a feeling of relief instead of dread. Putting the shutters up, you always feel like you're racing the fucking clock. But taking them down means you can take your own sweet fucking time and do things at your own pace. Plus working slowly makes sure you don't let one of the galvanized steel panels slide down your hand and filet your dickbeaters down to the bone. Getting rid of the water bladder was kind of anti-climactic, especially since it had already spring a tiny leak that required a patch of duct tape. Reminder: I paid $35 for three of these things on sale, and now people are trying to fuck you for almost ten times the cost. What a time to be a live, right? The gas is easy, just use that up in the cars. Although I don't have the right funnel now, and when I tried to dump some into my A6 the gas can's nozzle wasn't long enough to push open the little door in the gas filler, and the whole side of my car ended up in big automotive bukkake scene. But thankfully this shit is all coming to an end, since hurricane season ends in just a few weeks with no additional storms in sight. >>knocks on wood<<

Side note, I got into a discussion on the hazards of living in various parts of the country -- hurricanes in the Gulf and Atlantic coasts, tornadoes and flooding in the midwest, earthquakes and wildfires out on the Pacific coast. She lives in SFO said she's never live down here because hurricanes can scatter your shit over three counties. True as that may be, we each have our own crosses to bear, I suppose.

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